The Wistful Mirror
The fire in the hearth of the Blackwood estate did not burn; it roared, a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of the floor. It was a feast for the harvest, a celebration of the year’s bountiful yield, yet the air in the great hall felt thin, stretched tight as a drum skin. Young Thomas sat at the edge of the long oak table, his knees drawn up to his chest,...
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